Stay The Night
by aracelymercerchandler
Summary: It's a beautiful night at Hogwarts. It would be a terrible shame to waste it on studying and other such nonsense. Severus Snape and Aracely spend it on the forbidden pleasures of student/teacher relationships. Severus SnapexOC oneshot OOC Severus Snape


I enjoy being a Ravenclaw, but sometimes the pressure to achieve academic excellence in all areas can be draining. Competition is fierce at the best of times, but now that the NEWTs have arrived in their full blood-freezing glory, there is a kind of feverish race to be the person who appears to have done the least revision. No self-respecting Ravenclaw would ever admit to the sore-eyed hours of cramming done by wand-light under the covers before dawn, for fear that they will not appear to possess the effortless brilliance we all crave recognition for. Yet we all do it, and we all know we do it.

Nonetheless, the same old pre-exam conversation is being trotted out all over the Common Room this morning.

"Gods, I haven't revised at all. I know absolutely nothing."

"I know even less. I can't even remember studying Charms at all!"

"Bloody hell, Flitwick's going to kill us. The reputation of the House will be in shreds."

Etcetera etcetera.

Few of us have any appetite for breakfast, but my best friend Babette and I pick at our toast and cereal, matching the milk for pallor.

"How long is the exam?" I ask again, though I know full well. All part of the ritual, though, isn't it?

"Three hours," is Babette's glum rejoinder.

"Wonder who's invigilating?"

"Well, I know who I hope isn't invigilating," says Babette with an arch look at me. "For the sake of your concentration."

"Stop it! I'm not a complete airhead, you know." I am affronted, though the idea that I might have to spend three hours in the Great Hall in front of my fantasy figure of five years' standing has sent a warning shot straight through my solar plexus.

"Of course not," says Babette blithely. "I can just see your paperooooh, Professor, take me now, ooohOh! He is utterly edible, holding that fork between those strokably slender fingers. It would be me he'd have for breakfast though, were I ever in the fortunate position of that fork. Mmmmm. Tuck that stray hair behind your ear, that's right.

"You're drooling."

"What's not to drool over?"

"Come on; we can get half an hour's cramming in before the exam. Drink your pumpkin juice and let's go."

I am a Ravenclaw and nobody will see me cramming in broad daylight, no Sir! The shameless Babette flicks through her Charms notes as we loll against a pillar in the lobby awaiting the dreaded Opening of the Great Hall Doors, but I am nonchalantly scanning my new Muggle novel, which I am finding quite riveting. The Story of O. It's, ah, a very absorbing book, though more suitable for bedtime reading really. Preferably alone. If you catch my drift.

So I'm up to the bit where O's lover and Sir Stephen are discussing her assets while she is bent naked over a couch, and it's really very good; so good that I am blissfully deafened to the measured tread of size eleven boots on the flagstones and blinded to the looming black form that glides past until it stops quite suddenly and whips the book out of my hands. The protest dies on my lips as I see exactly who has decided to inspect my reading material. Two words spring to mind. One is 'Oh'. The other is 'fuck'. With a number of exclamation marks for emphasis.

"Rather overconfident, aren't we, Miss Branson, reading Muggle novels ten minutes before a NEWT?" I would be basking in his attention now, lapping up his hard black stare and trying to absorb it into my bloodstream, if only my book were slightly less incriminating. "What is it today? The Plague? Metamorphosis?" Good books, read 'em both. Snape has taste. But does his taste run toam I imagining a slight heaviness to his exhalations? A frisson of delicious fear distracts me from my scribblings and I freeze, quill poised, until he moves on. After an hour, Trelawney takes over pacing duties and Snape arranges himself elegantly in a chair at the front of the Hall, scanning the ranks of bowed heads for irregularities. His eyes briefly meet mine and I duck back down. Two more hours of this. I can't take it. Those hands, those eyes, thator his underwear. Does he share my little kink? I reckon he does, judging by the furrows of his brow. He is in his own little world over thereoh, go on, just a peekan hour to do them in. It's fine. I'm OK. Breathe.

He has put the book down. He is standing up. More aisle patrol. Heading directly for me with slow and deadly intent, looking at me all the time. I am pretending not to watch him, but I can just make him out from the corner of my eye. He has stopped at my desk and is reading my paper over my shoulder. How rude! Not as rude as my book though. How far has he got, I wonder? Have they left Roissy yet? I can just see him there but this is a NEWT. I pull myself together. He returns to my novel and has finished it within the hour. Fast reader. I like that in a man.

"Put down your quills and wait in silence for your parchments to be collected," he intones. Professor Trelawney begins gathering up the completed papers from the other side of the Hall; Snape is working my side of the room. I clasp my hands tightly in my lap, staring stonily ahead as he makes his inexorable progress towards me. He picks up my parchment without making any attempt to catch my eye or say anything. Good sign? I hope so.

The two Professors pile the parchments on to the table and we are dismissed. An instant buzz of post-mortem conversation rises into the air as the students file out in knots of two and three. Babette threads her way over to me and says, "That wasn't as bad as I expected; what did you make of it?"

I look uncomprehendingly at her and say, "My life is over anyway." She frowns in confusion. "Snape. He spent the exam reading my book. He's going togarrott me. Or something."

"Perhaps he'll flay you alive?" she suggests. She's the one who bought me the book, so she can relate to my concerns. "Or perhaps he'll have you branded, like O."

"You're such a comfort to me, Babs."

Snape is standing by the door, policing the mass exit of the jaded seventh years. My book is in his hand. I consider hanging around until he has gone, but realise he will probably stay until the Hall is empty. And then we will be alone with him. Eek. So I try to hide as much of myself as I can behind the solid figure of Babette and slink unobtrusively over to the door amidst a gaggle of Hufflepuffs.

A hand on my shoulder. Oooh, thrills. I have longed for this dayplease let it be.

"Mercy, you say. A concept which would seem to be somewhat at odds with the content of this book. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Well, yes." I blush. Thinking about the content of the book whilst looking at Professor Snape is a cruel combination. My heart flutters violently.

"Miss Branson, do you consider that this is entirely appropriate reading material for a blameless young Ravenclaw such as yourself?" He has arched an eyebrow in an inexpressibly sexy way.

I steel myself. "Yes," I say. "I do."

The other eyebrow joins the party. I take my trusty sword and fight fearlessly on. "You sound like the judge in the Lady Chatterley trial," I say defiantly. "He asked whether it was a book you would want your wife or your servants to read. I think it is. All wives and servants should have the right to read it if they choose. I oppose censorship in all forms, and, as I am legally an adult with the intellectual capacity to make my own decisions, I am absolutely sure that anything I choose to read is appropriate."

"And if I say it isn't?" counters Snape.

"Are you saying that? Because if you are, you are wrong. I have to contradict you." Woah, where did this civil rights champion come from? I can't believe I'm actually arguing with Professor Snape. I mean, nobody does that!

Snape says nothing for a terrifyingly long time. He stands staring impassively into me; not so much as a muscle twitches. I feel faint.

"My office. Saturday evening. Seven o'clock," he almost whispers, as I am on the verge of swooning. He raises his voice a decibel or so and says, "I want three feet on The Story of O, giving your summary of the book and thoughts thereon. Bring it with you." He turns and starts to stalk away.

I halt him with a wail of protest. "But I'm in the middle of my NEWTs, Sir! Have a heart!"

He whirls around, curling his lip at me. "A heart, Miss Branson? Mercy? Surely you are mistaking me for somebody else." His robes parachute through the door after him.

What. The hell. Have I done?


End file.
